BANNERS 


BABETTE 
DETTTSCH 


BANNERS 
-BABETTE  DEUTSCH 


BANNERS 


BY 


BABETTE  DEUTSCH 


NEW  ^ST  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
MY  MOTHER 

AND 
THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  FATHER 


For  courteous  permission  to  reprint  certain  of 
these  poems,  the  author  thanks  the  editors  of  The 
Dial,  The  Liberator,  The  Lyric,  The  Maccabcean, 
The  Nation,  The  New  Republic,  The  North  Ameri 
can  Review,  Pearson  s,  Poetry  (Chicago),  Reedy 's 
Mirror,  The  Seven  Arts,  The  Smart  Set,  The  Sonnet, 
and  The  Texas  Review. 


CONTENTS 
THE  DANCERS 

PAGE 

THE   DANCERS 13 

BACCHANAL 15 

ANNA 17 

A  GIRL 18 

EXILES 19 

EPHEMERIS 

EPHEMERIS 23 

MARBLES 25 

TRAILS 28 

GENRE 31 

GARDENS 32 

OMBRES   CHINOISES 33 

DISTANCE 34 

SMOKE 36 

ROMANCE 38 

TWO  HOKKUS 39 

SHOWER 4O 

"TO  AN  AMIABLE   CHILD" 4! 

THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD 43 

SEA-MUSIC 44 

HARMONICS 45 

IX 


CONTENTS 

SONGS  AND  SILENCES  PAGE 

SONGS 51 

SILENCE 52 

FROM  THE    FERRY 53 

WALLS 54 

DAWN 55 

CANDLES 56 

LURES 57 

SEA   PIECE 58 

PRELIBATION       .                59 

SONNETS 

THE   SILVER   CHORD 63 

SIC  SEMPER 64 

SOLITUDE 6=; 

THE   UNDELIVERED 66 

ATHANATOS 67 

SEVERANCE 68 

THE   PERFECTIONIST 69 

TO  RANDOLPH   BOURNE 70 

REDEMPTION 71 

BANNERS 

BANNERS 75 

THE   CHALLENGER 78 

ALIENS So 

KING'S  PARK 82 

JUNE:   1917 85 

THE  NEW  DIONYSIAC 88 

BEAUTY 90 

PSALM   FOR  THE   NEW  ZION 92 

ZORKA 96 

ET   LE    BON   DIEU   PENSA 99 

X 


- 


THE  DANCERS 


THE  DANCERS 

FROM  the  grey  woods  they  come,  on  silent  feet 

Into  a  cone  of  light. 

A  moment  poised, 

A  lifting  note, 

O  fair!    O  fleet! 

Whence  did  you  come  in  your  amazing  flight? 

And  whither  now 

Do  you,  reluctant,  wistfully  retreat? 

Oh  surely  you  have  danced  upon  the  hills 

With  the  immortals. 

As  an  arrow  thrills 

Thru  the  blue  air  and  sings, 

You  join  with  the  proud  wind,  your  fluent  limbs 

As  tameless  as  his  wings. 

Within  your  hollowed  hand  you  hold  the  draught 

That  wakes  us  from  our  lingering  lethargy 

To  skyey  joy 

Like  yours,  luring  and  swift  and  free. 

Yours  is  the  birth  in  beauty  that  was  sung 

A  golden  age  ago; 

And  now  you  come 

—13— 


BANNERS 
DANCERS — continued 

With  pipe  and  timbrel  and  the  quickening  drum, 

Till  men  have  hope  of  conquest  over  time 

And  death  and  tears. 

Dreams  know  not  any  bars. 

You  leap  like  living  music  thru  the  air 

And  love  triumphant  treads  among  the  stars. 


—14— 


THE   DANCERS 


BACCHANAL 

SLOWLY  to  the  altar  .  .  .  slow, 

As  with  heavy  feet, 

Bound  by  a  woe  foreknown, 

Slowly  we  come. 

Our  arms  bear  high 

Their  bloomy  burden,  lift  and  loose  them  all; 

We  shake  our  limbs  free  in  the  purple  fall 

Of  offering. 

The  dark  is  torn  with  a  cry. 

Oh  we  are  mad, 

We  are  drunk  with  wine  of  the  god. 

Our  feet  are  athrill  with  the  juice  of  the  vine  we 

have  trod. 

Our  arms  are  upflung, 
Our  fingers  are  spread  on  the  air; 
The  scent  of  the  grape  in  our  nostrils; 
The  wind  in  our  hair. 
We  are  mad  with  our  maidenhood; 
Night  has  come  down  on  the  hills. 
We  dance  for  the  god 

—15— 


BANNERS 
BACCHANAL — continued 

Where  the  music  of  mystery  fills 
The  hollows  of  earth,  and  the  stars  leap  white  in 
the  sky. 

Our  glad  hands  softly  beat. 

With  beautiful  stamping  feet 

We  come. 

With  flying  hair; 

To  face  the  awful  joining, 

Throat  lifted,  pale  knees  bare. 

Slowly  on  the  dark  mountain-top 

Moving, 

More  slowly  now  .  .  . 

Faint  and  vague  are  our  traces, 

Trouble  and  halt  in  our  paces 

Where  wan  dawn  follows  close. 

God,  we  are  overthrown. 

Night  breaks,  we  lie  alone. 

Evoe !    Dionysos. 


—i  6— 


THE   DANCERS 


ANNA 

ARE  there  holier  ones 

Than  these? 

Is  there  a  more  fit  altar  for  worship? 

Limbs  of  a  young  Aphrodite; 

The  virgin  torso; 

Feet  firmly  planted, 

Or  lifted  only  in  rhythm, 

Beating  the  ground  like  the  clear 

Round  golden  notes  of  the  cymbal; 

Fingers  that  draw  the  heart 

Like  a  flute  that  calls  in  the  twilight; 

Brows  serious, 

Serene, 

Hair  wind-blown  and  dark, 

Lips  that  are  parted  slightly, 

A  wondering  god's; 

But  this  is  a  maiden.  .  .  . 

This  is  the  flyng  torch 

For  the  maternal  temple. 


—17— 


BANNERS 


A  GIRL 

You  also,  laughing  one, 
Tosser  of  balls  in  the  sun, 
Will  pillow  your  bright  head 
By  the  incurious  dead. 


—i  8— 


THE   DANCERS 


EXILES 

BY  what  wind-loved  grasses, 

By  what  grey  sea 

Do  they  dwell, 

The  restless  ones,  forever  returning 

To  the  places  their  lovers  remember? 

They  are  a  moment  seen, 

Tossing  their  golden  balls, 

Or  running  far,  far 

Beyond  the  sands  where  the  skies  vanish. 

They  come  again 

In  the  dawn  twilight, 

In  the  bird-broken  silences. 

But  they  are  gone 

Ungathered — 

Cliff-flowers,  .  .  . 

The  grace  of  foam 

Lost  in  the  bitter  green  waters. 


—19— 


EPHEMERIS 


EPHEMERIS 


EPHEMERIS 

ABOVE  the  river  in  a  summer  swoon 

Hangs  the  still  air,  and  in  the  warm  embrace 

Of  afternoon 

We  too  lie  dumbly,  full  of  soft  delight. 

The  grass  is  sweet  to  smell: 

We  suck  the  white 

Fresh  ends  of  it,  and  the  green  pleasant  place 

Where  we  are  lapped  seems  with  that  faint  taste 

sweeter 

Than  any  poppied  isle  in  remote  seas 
To  some  divinely  drowsy  lotus-eater. 
Long,  long 

We  lie,  and  have  no  care  for  any  human  thing, 
Save  for  the  snatch  of  song 
Where,  bathing  gaily,  tawny-bodied  boys 
Upfling 

The  water  round  them ;  or  from  a  child  at  play 
Floats  the  shrill  ripple  of  laughter  far  away. 
And  then  sharp  stillness,  pointed  by  the  stir 
Of  little  winds  among  the  boughs,  wherethru 
The  deep  sky  shines  impenetrably  blue. 

—23— 


BANNERS 

EPH  EMERIS — continued 

Wrapped  in  that  golden  haze  we  weave  at  will 
The  scents  and  airs  of  summer's  subtle  loom; 
Regretting  but  the  moments  as  they  pass, 
The  perished  bloom 

Of  the  wan  day,  that  like  the  wind  is  gone; 
And  in  the  growing  hush  we  watch  her  die ; 
And  watch,  beneath  the  same  impersonal  sky 
The  wimpled  river  flowing  greyly  on. 


EPHEMERIS 


MARBLES 

THE  boys  are  playing  marbles  in  the  street; 
Crouched    with    gay    eyes    intent    on   the    rough 

ground, 

Heedless  of  storming  labyrinthal  feet, 
Keen  only  for  the  lovely  sound 
Of  knocking  balls 
And  colors  brightly  blent. 
Glazed  potties,  blue  and  green  and  lavender, 
Gleam  near  pale  stonies'  warm  eburnean; 
Like  earth  and  splintered  diamond,  agates  shine; 
Glassies  are  struck  alive  with  sun; 
Blood-alleys  glow  like  drops  of  frozen  wine. 
Here  beauty  lies :  a  bracelet  all  unstrung 
For  the  March  city 
While  she  smiles  and  stirs 
Above  the  eager  gamble,  knuckle-down,  of  her 

young  jewellers. 

Marbles,  and  March,  the  tossing  wind,  and  the 

click 

Of  ball  on  ball,  and  wild  tumultuous  cries, 
—25— 


BANNERS 
MARBLES — continued 

Anger  and  laughter,  adventure! 
A  glance  and  a  thumb's  short  flick: 
Rubies  and  amber  and  lustrous  Carrara  to  win. 
Hope  jigs  in  the  heart. 
White  house-tops  sail  in  the  skies. 
Romance  winks  from  the  dust  where  the  colored 
alleys  spin. 


The    clangorous    traffic    drowns    the    hurrying 

crowd's 

Nervous  relentless  tread. 
Sunset  climbs  down  the  clouds. 
Day  and  the  wind  are  dead. 
There  are  separate  ways  in  the  dusk,  and  lonely 

shrill  farewells. 

To  lamplit  windows  and  his  narrow  bed 
Each  goes,  a  trifle  wistful. 
Yet  each  knows 
Prodigious  spells 

To  charm  the  hours  between  sun  and  sun. 
The  bulging  pockets  grin;  the  spoils  in  reach 
Of  gloating  sight  and  touch  all  night  must  lie. 
Each  has  by  heart  their  palpable  smooth  speech, 
Their  singing  colors'  lullaby. 
—26— 


EPHEMERIS 

MARBLES — continued 

Marbles,  and  March,  and  the  dreams  of  a  soft 

Spring  night: 

Prizes  of  amber  and  ivory,  lapis  and  jade. 
An  arrow  of  moving  light.  .  .  . 
They  rouse  at  the  joyous  noise 
Of  kissing  balls 
To  the  thrill  of  games  unplayed. 


—27— 


BANNERS 


TRAILS 

WHERE  grey-limbed  timber  mingled  whispering 

boughs, 

The  forest  shadow  splintering  the  sun, 
Warm-eyed  and  suddenly  very  young,  you  stood. 
Palpitant  nostrils  breathed  the  smell  of  wood: 
"Growing,  or  fresh-cut, 
It's  the  smell  of  home." 
You  moved  and  put  your  arms  around  a  tree 
And  laughed  at  me. 
And  the  boy  you  were, 
From  the  highest  branch  that  bore  his  weight, 

laughed  back. 
Then  swinging  free, 
You  were  a  man  again, 
Taking  me  down  the  wild-grown  track 
To  the  fishing-brook  where  Spring  would  find  you, 
Forgetful  of  the  jerking  hook, 
Conjuring  out  of  the  dusk  behind  you 
The  genii  and  the  heroes  of  your  book. 
"This  little  brook  is  a  feeder  of  the  river," 
You  said,  and  with  strange  adult  gravity 
—28— 


EPHEMERIS 
TRAILS — continued 

Led  me  beyond  the  pebble-bottomed  stream 
With  wise  talk  of  log-rolling,  pretty  grains, 
And  strong,  elastic  beams. 
Your  voice,  caressing 
The  woods  you  named,  echoed  a  boy's 
Excited  treble,  and  recalled  the  boy 
Leaping  and  like  a  leaf  aquiver 
With  joy,  since  he  was  going  up  the  river 
To  spend  a  week-end  at  the  lumber-camp. 
That  was  a  place  of  magic,  if  you  like. 
Hard  bunks,  coarse  food  (the  bread  in  peasant- 
hunks 

Like  fairy-tales),  the  huge  rough  strength  of  men, 
The  early  morning  hours  as  fresh  and  cool 
As  if  earth  had  been  dipped  into  a  pool 
And  still  were  dripping  with  it. 
Best,  the  times  when  they  were  busiest, 
Too  busy  to  be  mindful  of  a  boy, 
And  only  flung  the  word:  "Watch  out,  there!" 

when 

They  tightened  ropes,  let  big  chips  fly,  and  then 
Cleared   for  the  monstrous   crashing,   loud  and 

clean. 

It  had  your  mark  on  it,  one  branching  oak: 
The  trunk  was  like  a  totem  with  its  signs. 
—29— 


BANNERS 
TRAILS — continued 

But  when  the  boughs  rubbed  and  the  leafage  spoke 

With  wind,  the  sound  was  like  the  soft  slow  roar 

Of  ocean  breaking  on  a  distant  shore. 

The  forest  thinned  and  vanished,  the  sky  changed; 

The  boy  was  nowhere,  and  the  man  estranged. 

I  stood  perplexed  in  your  familiar  haunts, 

An  alien; 

Time,  with  subtle  taunts,  had  banished  me  outside 

the  magic  wood. 
Wonderfully, 

All  the  bright  life  that  we  had  known  together: 
The  concert-rooms,  the  gossip, 
The  mad  weather 
We  tramped  thru  gaily, 
The  fencing  over  cigarettes  and  tea, 
The  sweet  fierce  quarrels  in  the  gallery.  .  .  . 
Paled,  faded,  was  the  memory  of  a  mood. 
Only  the  boy  was  real,  and  he  had  fled, 
And  you  had  followed  him. 
But  you  are  dead. 


—30— 


EPHEMER1S 


GENRE 

THE  undulant  wind-shadowed  water  lips 

The  weather-bitten  wharf. 

Like  anchored  phantoms,  ships 

Swing  out  from  the  warped  slips,  with  a  drowsy 

rhythm 

As  of  insects  singing. 
Inland,  the  sunwarmed  smell  of  grass 
Comes  softly  on. 

There  is  a  presence  as  of  hours  that  pass 
In  silence,  and  inhumanly  are  gone. 
The  grey  haze  does  not  lift. 
The  river  is  wood-colored  like  the  pier. 
A  lonely  shed 

Down  by  the  water's  edge  gleams  harshly  red. 
The  tide  is  full  ...  the  worn  piles  heave  and 

drift. 


BANNERS 


GARDENS 

INTO  the  dropping  sun  as  into  a  warm  flower 

The  strong  sun  breaks. 

Petals  on  glowing  petals  shower 

In  gorgeous  rain, 

Crimsoning  windows,  dyeing  the  passionless  city 

With  wild  pomegranate  stain. 

The  tropic  hour 

Fades  slowly, 

Slowly  the  evening  flower 

Puts  forth  its  luminous  blues  and  lucent  jades, 

Opening  only  to  withdraw  and  close 

Before  the  unfolding  of  night's  velvet  rose, 

Trembling  with  starry  dews. 

Gold  is  the  scentless  garden  of  the  sky, 

Imperishably  bright. 

Yet  we  who  lie  under  its  glory,  crushing  the  young 

grass, 

Turn  from  it,  as  from  beauty  in  a  glass, 
To  the  flowers  that  spring  near  us,  that  will  die. 


—32— 


EPHEMERIS 


OMBRES  CHINOISES 

THE  city  misted  in  rain,  dim  wet  flashes  of  light 

Strike  thru  the  dusk;  vaguely  thunders  a  train; 

The  cabs  rattle  and  slip  over  the  glimmering  street. 

Under  the  wheels  and  hooves  and  hurrying  feet 

The  darkly  shining  pave 

Reaches  into  the  night. 

On  blackness  color  flames:  purple  and  blurs  of 

red 

Like  fruits  of  faery  bloom, 
Yellow  soft   as  honey  and  gold,   green  as  tho 

crushed  emeralds  bled, 
Arctic  blue  in  pale  cold  ribbons 
Lost  in  gloom. 

Wind,  and  across  the  shaken  lanterns 
The  obscure  shadows  loom. 


—33— 


BANNERS 


DISTANCE 

Two  pale  old  men 

Sit  by  a  squalid  window  playing  chess. 

The  heavy  air  and  the  shrill  cries 

Beyond  the  sheltering  pane  are  less 

To  them  than  roof-blockaded  skies. 

Life  flowing  past  them : 

Women  with  gay  eyes, 

Resurgent  voices,  and  the  noise 

Of  pedlars  showing  urgent  wares, 

Leaves  their  dark  peace  unchanged. 

They  are  innocent 

Of  the  street  clamor  as  young  children  bent 

Absorbed  over  their  toys. 

The  old  heads  nod; 

A  parchment-colored  hand 

Hovers  above  the  intricate  dim  board. 

And  patient  schemes  are  woven,  where  they  sit 

So  still, 

And  ravelled,  and  reknit  with  reverent  skill. 

And  when  a  point  is  scored 

—34— 


EPHEMERIS 
DISTANCE — continued 

A  flickering  jest 

Brightens  their  eyes,  a  solemn  beard  is  raised 

A  moment,  and  then  sunk  on  the  thin  chest. 

Heedless  as  happy  children,  or  maybe 

Lovers  creating  their  own  solitude, 

Or  worn  philosophers,  content  to  brood 

On  an  intangible  reality. 

Shut  in  an  ideal  universe, 

Within  their  darkened  window-frame 

They  ponder  on  their  moves,  rehearse 

The  old  designs, 

Two  rusty  skull-caps  bowed 

Above  an  endless  game. 


—35— 


BANNERS 


SMOKE 

BECAUSE  it  is  evening, 

Because  the  last  light  lies 

In  fading  warmth  on  the  housefronts  and  the  grey 
street, 

Because  the  night  clouds  are  overcoming  the 
skies, 

The  air  comes  sweet 

With  the  savor  of  a  rare  and  delicate  wine. 

Ambiguously  I  repeat 

The  vain  old  pageant's  movements,  nor  resist 

The  soft  demands  of  eyes. 

On  a  loud  corner  I  may  pause  to  stare 

After  the  massed  backs  of  the  moving  throng; 

Swing  to  the  syncopation  of  a  song; 

Listen  to  the  chatter  of  hurrying  feet; 

And  send  delicate  smoke  into  the  air, 

Regarding  the  first  lamps  on  the  pale  thorough 
fare. 

I  snuff  the  dust  mingled  with  the  perfume 

Of  women  of  fashion; 

Taste  night's  early  breath, 

-36- 


EPHEMERIS 

SMOKE — continued 

And  the  city's  bloom. 

Because  life  is  so  barren  of  passion, 

I  would  sense  death. 

Beauty  passes  like  smoke  on  the  wind,  and  delight 

Is  sharp  as  the  last  puff  of  an  exquisite  cigarette. 

And  should  I  fret  because  the  vulgar  night, 

With  lost  emotions  and  stale  poignancies, 

Stabs  with  the  chill  acuteness  of  a  knife 

Offering  life? 


—37— 


BANNERS 


ROMANCE 

There  are  shy  woods 

Of  quickening  thin  boughs, 

Pale  jade,  alive. 

There  is  a  wind, 

A  tempest  and  a  roar  of  beaten  waters, 

Agape  with  laughing  fangs. 

There  is  a  darkness, 

Tender,  terrible. 

Gestic,  or  I  remember.  .  .   ? 


—38— 


EPHEMERIS 


TWO  HOKKUS 
ANSWER 

You  ask  for  a  hokku. 

Ask  for  silence,  rather. 

It  is  like  trying  to  ride  past  the  sun. 

It  is  like  the  words  of  farewell 

Before  a  final  parting. 

SCREEN  PATTERN 

The  hounding  wind 

Runs  shrieking  thru  the  dark. 

From  a  black  cloud 

The  moon  gleams  like  a  tiger 

Amber-eyed. 


—39— 


BANNERS 


SHOWER 

From  the  clear  melancholy  sky 

The  rain 

Drops  in  long  shaken  sheets, 

And  softly  hops  on  the  wide,  glistering  streets, 

And  dully  flows 

Through  emptied  thoroughfares, 

Where  a  few  solitary  cabs  parade 

Like  slow  defeated  ghosts  none  living  knows, 

For  whom  none  living  cares. 

Till  lightning  quivers  and  harsh  thunder  breaks 

On  startled  ears 

And  wakes 

Old  wonders  and  old  fears. 

The  huddled  folk 

Stare  outward  at  wind-swollen  gusts 

And  the  down-driven  smoke, 

And  at  the  sky, 

Defended  by  complacent  surety 

Of  a  near  hour  when  they  need  not  pause 

For  drenching  winds  and  bolts  beyond  their  laws. 

—40— 


EPHEMERIS 


"TO  AN  AMIABLE  CHILD" 

You  were  an  amiable  child. 

Not  as  the  other  children  were, 

Petulant,  pouting, 

You  would  wear  your  half-grown  wisdom 

With  an  air  of  humor; 

And  you  laughed  less  than  you  smiled. 

And  you  were  largely  tolerant 

Of  company  and  rainy  days  and  common  games 

you  did  not  want. 
You  were  so  still,  but  radiant 
When  life  was  good. 
And  more  than  food  or  play, 
Music  you  loved,  and  motion  and 
Beauty  you  could  not  understand 
In  voice  and  face  and  golden  weather. 
Yet  sometimes  for  whole  days  together 
You  wore  your  silence  like  a  shield; 
You  who  could  yield 
As  graciously  to  death  as  to  your  nurse 
At  bedtime,  hopeful  of  prodigious  dreams. 
Now  here  you  lie. 

—41— 


BANNERS 

"TO  AN  AMIABLE  CHILD" — continued 

But  too  unmindful  of  sweet  dreams  or  waking, 

For  all  the  birdsongs  and  the  blossoms  breaking 

Above  your  grave, 

Or  wondering  strangers  making 

What  tale  beseems  your  faint  quaint  epitaph. 

Now  rank  sods  cover 

The  dust  of  lovely  limbs,  and  all  the  show 

Of  your  beloved  ways  is  strangely  over. 

Yet  there's  some  comfort  in  the  world  to  know 

That  you  were  dear  and  fair,  and  still  must  be 

Remembered  so. 


—42— 


EPHEMERIS 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD 

ARE  you  at  ease  now, 

Do  you  suck  content 

From  death's  dark  nipple  between  your  wan  lips? 

Now  that  the  fever  of  the  day  is  spent 

And  anguish  slips 

From  the  small  limbs, 

And  they  lie  lapped  in  rest, 

The  young  head  pillowed  soft  upon  that  indurate 

breast. 

No,  you  are  quiet, 
And  forever, 

Tho  for  us  the  silence  is  so  loud  with  tears, 
Wherein  we  hear  the  dreadful-footed  years 
Echoing,  but  your  quick  laughter  never, 
Never  your  stumbling  run,  your  sudden  face 
Thrust  in  bright  scorn  upon  our  solemn  fears. 
Now  the  dark  mother  holds  you  close ; .  .  .  o,  you 
We  loved  so, 
How  you  lie, 

So  strangely  still,  unmoved  so  utterly, 
Dear  yet,  but  oh  a  little  alien  too. 

—43— 


BANNERS 


SEA-MUSIC 

THERE  is  a  place  of  bitter  memories 
Dreary  and  wide  and  lonely  as  the  sea, 
Foaming  and  moaning;  there  they  come  to  me 
Like  wild  gulls  crying  sea-taught  monodies ;  .  .  . 
Iron-winged  hours,  heavy,  heavy  with  dread; 
Dawn  after  death;  the  sound  of  a  shut  door; 
And  shining  love  that  has  a  withered  core ; 
The  eyes  of  those  who  fight  and  starve  for  bread. 
There  is  doom,  and  change,  and  silence,  and  deny 
ing; 

Memories  of  these  pluck  at  the  heart  of  me. 
And  over  the  bitter  roar  of  the  old  dumb  sea 
The  air  is  filled   with   the   noise   of   wild   gulls 
crying. 


—44— 


EPHEMERIS 


HARMONICS 

I  HAVE  come  here  to  be  free  for  an  hour  or  two, 
To  relinquish  to  a  darkness  richly  lit, 
To  the  silken  movement  of  infiltering  crowds, 
The  music,  the  noisy  thrill  of  dischords  preluding 

it  — 

The  morning's  fret  and  the  night's  restless  argu 
ment. 

The  quarrelling  strings  and  the  dim  stage  are  kind, 

Rest  is  in  the  curtain's  velvet  fall. 

Lovely  indifferent  strangers  put  poverty  out  of 
the  mind. 

The  mutter  of  traffic  is  exquisitely  drowned 

By  the  low  bright  liquid  swell  of  belling  sound. 

I  forget  .  .  . 

The  miles  of  mud, 

The  barren  world  of  mud 

And  fire;  pulling  at  the  boots  and  biting  at  the 
flesh. 

The  watery  world 

Of  sinking  corpses. 

The  filthy  dawns, 

—45— 


BANNERS 

HARMONICS — continued 

The  flames  that  crack  darkness  open  and  limbs 

apart. 

The  monstrousness  of  the  unthinkable  dead, 
The  unthinkable  living. 

The  estrangement  from  known  face  and  places, 
The  going  home  to  a  heap  of  stones ; 
The  monotonous  machinery  of  hell. 
I  had  forgotten.  .  .  . 
The  music  abruptly  stopped, 
.Chatter  arose  and  applause.     I  was  aware 
Of  moving  heads,  of  the  close  fragrant  air, 
The  flutter  of  a  programme  dropped. 
I  had  forgotten  the  concert-hall 
And  why  I  was  there. 
I  passed  to  the  red-lamped  exit, 
And  hearing  the  newsboys  cry 
Beckoned. 

The  pennies  jingled;  all  at  once  it  seemed 
Terrible  to  live, 
But  curious  to  die ; 
And  over  the  music  and  under  the  roar  of  the 

street 
The    headlines    were    nothing    but    print    that 

screamed. 

-46- 


EPHEMERIS 
HARMONICS — continued 

There  was  a  sound  of  war 

And  of  defeat. 

I  stood  there  staring  at  the  sunset  sky. 


SONGS  AND  SILENCES 


SONGS   AND   SILENCES 


SONGS 

I  WOULD  make  songs  for  you: 

Of  slow  suns  weighing 

Thru  pale  mist  to  the  river,  overlaying 

Gold  upon  silver  tissue;  or  the  hush 

Of  winter  twilight  when  the  bushes  quiver 

Blooming  with  birds; 

Of  the  easy  snow; 

Of  patient  streets,  or  the  theatric  glow 

Of  lamps  on  crowding  faces  in  the  night; 

Of  sudden  gay  encounters  without  words; 

Of  sorrow  quiet  in  a  huddled  fight; 

Of  the  release  of  April  winds; 

Of  death, 

That  is  a  stillness  without  peace, — 

Like  love,  wherefor  I  am  so  dumb  to  you, 


BANNERS 


SILENCE 

SILENCE  with  you  is  like  the  faint  delicious 
Smile  of  a  child  asleep,  in  dreams  unguessed: 
Only  the  hinted  wonder  of  its  dreaming, 
The  soft,  slow-breathing  miracle  of  rest. 
Silence  with  you  is  like  a  kind  departure 
From  iron  clangor  and  the  engulfing  crowd 
Into  a  wide  and  greenly  barren  meadow, 
Under  the  bloom  of  some  blue-bosomed  cloud; 
Or  like  one  held  upon  the  sands  at  evening, 
When  the  drawn  tide  rolls  out,  and  the  mixed 

light 

Of  sea  and  sky  enshrouds  the  far,  wind-bellowed 
Sails  that  move  darkly  on  the  edge  of  night. 


—52— 


SONGS   AND   SILENCES 


FROM  THE  FERRY 

THE  wind  blew  salty  from  the  bay, 
Darkly  the  river  rose, 
Lights  on  the  farther  shore  were  pale 
As  when  the  first  star  shows. 

Our  faces  lifted  to  the  night, 
The  air  was  like  a  boon; 
We  were  as  close  as  lovers  are, 
And  alien  as  the  moon. 


—53-* 


BANNERS 


WALLS 

THE  cliffs  were  terrible.     Black  flint 
Rearing  upon  the  sky; 
In  futile  patterns  shadowy  boughs 
Laced  their  immensity. 

We  moved  at  the  dark  granite  foot; 
In  our  old  bantering  tone 
We  talked  and  laughed.     Beside  us,  truth 
Stood  with  a  face  of  stone. 


SONGS   AND    SILENCES 


DAWN 

OVER  hushed  lawns  a  pale  grey  arch, 
Vague  walls  took  sharper  form; 
Beyond,  the  quiet  water  lay, 
Flickering  dark  and  warm. 

Farther,  the  city:  clustered  lights, 
Dimmed  where  the  sky-line  glows; 
Sleep  hovered  on  the  freshened  air; 
You  laughed  ...  the  new  sun  rose., 


—55— 


BANNERS 


CANDLES 

JOY  lights  the  candles  in  my  heart 
When  you  come  in,  until  it  seems 
The  racing  flames  must  fill  the  room 
With  Marathons  of  gleams. 

The  place  where  we  are  met  is  gay 
And  glowing  with  the  darting  rout, 
Till  going,  you  swing  wide  the  door, 
And  blow  them  out. 


-56- 


SONGS   AND   SILENCES 


LURES 

SWART  rusty  pine-boughs  hold 
Thin  threads  of  pallid  gold. 
At  the  white  high-road's  turn 
Coppery  bushes  burn. 
The  sky  is  clear  and  green. 
The  light  is  hard  and  keen. 
But  sharper,  shriller,  cries 
Jour  absent  face  .  .  .your  eyes.. 


—57— 


BANNERS 


SEA-PIECE 

DUNES  overthrown  by  the  wind  lie  prone  to  the 

twilight; 
Held  in  the  foam-darkened  hollows  and  softly 

moving 

Over  the  pallid  sea-marge  in  slow  resurgence 
Whispers  the  ocean. 

Threads  of  foam  in  the  fine  sands  lingering  faintly 
Sink  as  we  watch.  The  touch  of  the  air  is  colder. 
Swift  the  oncoming  clouds.  Your  lips  upon  my 

lips 
Salt  with  the  sea-wind. 


—58- 


SONGS   AND    SILENCES 


PRELIBATION 

GHOSTLY  scent  of  boughs  that  stir  in  the  darkness, 
Fresh  the  fine  dark  dews,  the  thick  stars  distant, 
Earth  one  star  that  swings  in  the  luminous 

heavens: 

These  are  our  terror. 

Blind  and  bright,  they  look  upon  nameless  lovers; 
In  their  light  the  ravishing  years  are  looming; 
You  must  go  from  my  arms.     One  will  take  you, 
Death,  or  estrangement. 


—59— 


SONNETS 


SONNETS 


THE  SILVER  CHORD 

A  FROSTY  silence,  blank  as  the  wide  spaces 

Of  drifted  snow,  broods  on  the  brilliant  air. 

Green  lakes  of  ice  lie  in  the  white  embraces 

Of  wind-swept  meadows,  under  skies  as  bare. 

Beyond,  shrouded  in  smoky  rose,  the  hills. 

A  pale,  bright  sun,  enmeshed  in  sombre  boughs, 

Threads  these  with  ruddy  haze.    And  quiet  fills 

The  hollows  where  the  shadow-bringers  drowse. 

Quiet  is  resonant  as  some  deep  bell; 

Beauty  like  music  echoes  in  the  brain. 

The  snow-lit  clarity  is  palpable. 

Here  is  profound  appeasement  .  .  .  here  is  pain. 

Only  the  infinite  impersonal  moves 

So  poignantly  the  finite  heart  that  loves. 


—63- 


BANNERS 


SIC  SEMPER 

HUSH  broods  on  the  pale  fields  under  the  spell 
Of  the  dim  sky  and  its  half-hearted  stars. 
Only  the  dwindling  winds  in  their  soft  swell 
Stir  the  dark  boughs  and  their  flung  shadow-bars. 
All  hidden  lights,  all  muffled  noises  seem 
To  lie  beyond  the  grey  horizon's  edge. 
Here  is  the  timeless  silence  of  a  dream, 
And  we  two  ghosts  who  keep  a  wordless  pledge. 
But  with  so  small  a  warning,  suddenly 
Fragrance  swoops  down  upon  us  like  a  storm 
That  leaves  us  clutching,  clinging  humanly; 
With  your  two  arms  about  me,  tense  and  warm. 
And  the  sweet  night  is  hid,  as  by  a  wall, 
And  love,  low-voiced,  fierce-fingered  love  is  all. 


« — 64 — 


SONNETS 


SOLITUDE 

THERE  is  the  loneliness  of  peopled  places: 
Streets  roaring  with  their  human  flood;  the  crowd 
That  fills  bright  rooms  with  billowing  sounds  and 

faces, 

Like  foreign  music,  overshrill  and  loud. 
There  is  the  loneliness  of  one  who  stands 
Fronting  the  waste  under  the  cold  sea-light, 
A  wisp  of  flesh  against  the  endless  sands, 
Like  a  lost  gull  in  solitary  flight. 
Single  is  all  up-rising  and  down-lying; 
Struggle  or  fear  or  silence  none  may  share; 
Each  is  alone  in  bearing,  and  in  dying; 
Conquest  is  uncompanioned  as  despair. 
But  I  have  known  no  loneliness  like  this, 
Locked  in  your  arms  and  bent  beneath  your  kiss. 


BANNERS 


THE  UNDELIVERED 

OUT  of  the  night  an  angry  woman  crying, 
A  typist  clicking  on,  the  clink  of  glass, 
Laughter,  a  tenuous  music,  all  denying 
The  whole  dark  silence  of  the  sky.     These  pass; 
The  lighted  windows  blacken,  one  by  one ; 
The  stealthy  noises  of  the  late  hours  cease; 
Anger  and  business,  mirth  and  love  are  done; 
Safe  in  sleep's  umber  envelope  of  peace. 
Safe,  as  in  death,  they  lie;  tho  with  day's  breaking 
They  stir  uneasy  limbs  once  more,  and  know 
The  dull  familiar  trouble  of  awaking, 
And  all  night's  soft  forgettings  swift  to  go. 
They  have  had  release;  but  the  unsleeping,  these 
Are  prisoners  who  have  thrown  away  the  keys. 


—66— 


SONNETS 


I/ 


ATHANATOS 


WHEN  you  have  known  the  swing  of  every  ship ; 

Obeyed  brute  winds  on  loud  enormous  seas; 

Lingered  to  watch  the  hungry  waters  lip 

Bold  foreign  quays;  and  wearied  of  all  these: 

Wearied  of  changing  lights  and  changing  faces, 

And  the  perennial  sun,  rising  and  setting; 

Rapt  from  the  lure  of  unfamiliar  places, 

Adventure  will  be  finding  and  forgetting. 

After  a  hundred  cities'  shifting  streets, 

After  lost  landmarks,  charred  with  blackened  fire, 

When  pulses  falter,  shamed  by  small  defeats, 

There  is  an  end  of  labor  and  desire. 

Art  fades,  wars  fail,  and  shrinking  tides  depart; 

Nothing  endures  but  the  compassionate  heart. 


-67- 


BANNERS 


SEVERANCE 

IN  the  fierce  rhythm  of  love  we  two  were  swung 
As  tho  to  hidden  music,  while  the  flood 
Of  our  insurgent  passion  throbbed  and  sung 
To  the  staccato  thrilling  of  our  blood. 
All  else  was  silence :  silence  in  the  trees, 
Deep  silence  in  the  meadows,  and  the  sky 
One  vast  dark  arch  of  silence.     All  these 
Quiet  before  our  close-locked  bodies'  cry. 
Yet  a  rebellious  brain  could  question  still, 
Weaponed  with  fear  and  with  proud  reason,  come 
To  thwart  and  torture  love's  blind-lidded  will, 
To   sunder  those   strained  limbs,  quivering  and 

dumb. 

And  I  could  taste  estrangement  in  your  kiss; 
Embraced,  we  could  yet  seek,  and  seeking,  miss. 


—68— 


SONNETS 


THE  PERFECTIONIST 

AMONG  the  vain  confusion  of  the  crowd 
He  bore  like  wind,  with  sudden  music  fraught; 
Following  beauty  like  a  fiery  cloud 
Beyond  to  the  far,  frozen  peaks  of  thought. 
As  ice,  his  lucid  passion  burned  and  shone, 
Wherein  he  saw  the  vulgar  pageant  pass: 
The  shadow  of  God,  and  kindling,  stared  upon 
His  own  stern  image  wavering  in  the  glass. 
The  vision  broke.     Crashing  in  fragments  round 

him, 

His  insubstantial  universe  came  down. 
His  mirrored  self  was  splinters  to  confound  him, 
He  struggled  blindly,  seeing  himself  drown. 
But  the  dark  face  of  God  he  sought  to  see 
Wore  death's  grotesque  familiarity. 


— 69 — • 


BANNERS 


TO  RANDOLPH  BOURNE 

So  you  are  dead.     Forever  foreign  now; 

Yet  more  accessible  than  when  you  moved, 

With  awkward  ambling  steps  and  ominous  brow, 

Among  the  furniture  of  life  you  loved. 

You  were  so  fragile  and  so  pitiless; 

The  games  we  played  with  you  were  rich  in  dread: 

You  had  a  devil — and  a  god,  I  guess. 

Now  you  are  proud  no  longer,  being  dead. 

You  scorned  the  ivory  tower,  yet  obeyed 

Truth  with  most  monkish  fervor,  in  a  cell 

Cramped  as  your  joys.     And  precious  as  a  maid, 

Your  lonely  mind  was  incorruptible. 

Your  diamond  flame  burned  keen;  but  now  you 

are 
Familiar  as  the  fire  of  a  star. 


SONNETS 


REDEMPTION 

LIKE  children  wakeful  in  the  night,  alert 

For  some  sad  sound  of  the  deserted  street, 

We  too  discard  our  toys,  and  stare,  inert, 

At  walls  of  black  estrangement  and  defeat. 

We  sicken  with  the  sound  and  smell  of  war. 

Among  our  best,  devouring  fingers  thrust; 

And  life  is  hateful,  bitter  at  the  core. 

The  world  goes  out — a  candle  in  a  gust. 

We  are  in  the  dark,  and  terrified  or  tired, 

As  those  who  move,  with  groping  hands,  to  bed, 

Rather  than  any  joy  we  once  desired, 

We  crave  the  long  blind  void  of  being  dead. 

But  in  a  curving  limb,  a  choric  cry, 

Beauty  throbs  stronger  than  the  will  to  die. 


—71— 


BANNERS 


BANNERS 


BANNERS 

(uThe  national  colors,  with  their  eagles,  have 
given  place  to  plain  red  flags,  one  of  which  floats 
over  the  famous  Winter  Palace,  where  the  Duma 
will  now  meet."  Newspaper  clipping;  March, 
1917.) 

WHEN  on  the  sun-spawned  earth 

First  the  mothering  light 

Dawned  on  her  dark, 

What  stirred  in  the  dark? 

The  brute  was  groping  there, 

Lured  from  his  rock-hewn  home 

By  the  beckoning  spark. 

A  slow,  earth-smattered  thing, 

With  the  smell  of  the  earth  on  his  hair — 

His,  in  the  dawn  of  the  world, 

His,  in  a  cave  impearled, 

His  was  the  first  great  spring 

To  the  red  dawn,  to  the  fire. 

The  caves  are  buried. 

The  mammoth-hunter 

—75— 


BANNERS 
BANNERS — continued 

Is  dust  upon  the  dust  he  trod. 

Yet  here  upon  a  richer  sod 

The  serf  of  later  ages,  burnt  with  toil, 

Stood  free, 

And  saw  the  fruits  of  his  own  soil 

Glowing  like  dawn. 

And  here  the  cities  see 

Among  their  clustering  lights   and  smoke,  new 

days, 

New  freedoms,  and  new  slavery. 
But  now,  as  from  beneath  the  deep  earth-floor 
The  seed  of  flame  beats  upward,  raging  higher, 
Now  breaks  the  noise  of  people  roused  to  war, 
Who  take  their  own  like  fire. 
Their  flag  is  fire: 
Color  of  the  red  sun 
On  the  horizon  of  the  cave-man;  one 
With  the  color  that  is  spilled  over  the  earth 
In  every  battle,  with  every  shuddering  birth. 
Blood  of  the  beaten  slave,  of  the  faithful  crucified, 
Blood  sapped  from  the  worker,  blood  of  all  who 

died 

To  nourish  the  new  soil  wherefrom  should  spring 
The  unknown  desired  thing. 
This  flag  a  nation  takes,  to  stud 

-76- 


BANNERS 
BANNERS — continued 

The  battle-fields  with  beauty. 

Oh  when  you  behold  it  whipping  in  the  wind, 

Color  of  dawn  and  of  your  own  heart's  blood, 

Soldiers, 

Will  you  not  rise 

From  earth-trench  and  sea-hollow  where  you  keep 

Your  tryst  with  death, 

And  wake  out  of  your  sleep, 

And  see  with  the  cave-man's  eyes 

That  the  day  is  here,  and  this  is  the  sunrise ! 

Come,  as  the  brute  from  the  dark,  with  a  mighty 

leap 
To  the  red  dawn,  to  the  light. 


—77- 


BANNERS 


THE  CHALLENGER 

I  SHALL  give  you  the  keys  to  the  gates  of  the  four 

winds, 

To  the  temple  of  the  sun. 
The  ocean  arches 
Will  fall, 

The  night  will  crumble. 
Cities  of  men  will  lie,  puny  toys,  to  your  hand. 

In.  the  palpitant  earth, 
In  the  clashing  of  waters, 
Crying  in  the  quenchless  skies 
Rises  your  will. 
Red,  a  leaping  fire; 
Cold,  a  sword. 

Am  I  a  god  that  you  worship? 
A  lover  that  you  pant  toward  me? 
Am  I  death,  whose  lap  is  slumber? 
You  do  not  know  me. 
In  the  void  you  seek, 
In  the  furtive  darkness, 

—78— 


BANNERS 
THE  CHALLENGER — continued 

In  pain,  glory,  adventure. 

I  cast  time  behind  me,  the  rind  of  the  fruit. 

I  go  naked  and  happy 

To  the  fearless  peaks, 

The  brooding. 

You  do  not  see 

The  night  of  the  womb. 

You  do  not  hear 

The  voice  of  the  lightning. 

You  do  not  clasp 

The  body  of  war. 

I  shall  bring  you  to  the  gates  of  the  four  winds. 
I  shall  open  to  you  the  temple  of  the  sun. 


—79— 


BANNERS 


ALIENS 

THE  mad  go  softly 

Hidden  in  terror. 

Their  fear  protects  them. 

Yet  they  are  lonely. 

Oh,  lonely  ones, 
Who  heed  neither 
Harsh  skies  nor  cruel  people 
Who  go,  dancing  or  crying, 
Forever  solitary, 
You  I  love  better 
Than  the  sane, 

Who  are  one  voice  and  one  movement  of  multi 
tudes. 

You,  Tamerlane, 
Astride  Asia, 
You  with  the  whip; 
You  living  secretly 
With  shame,  the  dark  bedfellow; 
—80— 


BANNERS 
ALIENS — continued 

You,  on  the  fringe  of  the  crowd, 
Fleeing  the  empty  day; 
You  in  the  dark  of  the  wind 
On  the  sounding  mountains. 

You  have  no  commerce  with  death, 

The  world-devourer,  the  worshipped. 

You  are  alone. 

Night  hides  in  your  eyes. 

Silence 

Clasps  you. 

The  mad  do  not  hunger. 

In  them  is  chaos  crying. 

Their  flesh  does  not  yearn  with  a  sweet  ache. 

They  would  hold  the  sun  from  the  heavens. 

The  mad  do  not  sleep. 

Their  destroying  laughter 

Breaks  their  dreams. 

The  mad  go  softly 

Hidden  in  terror. 

Their  fear  protects  them.; 


-8 1— 


BANNERS 


KING'S  PARK 

ONE  by  one  they  come  into  the  room, 

Silent,  strange,  with  incurious  glances. 

Some  are  gay,  with  a  child's  irrelevant  laughter, 

But  most,  shut  off 

From  the  winter  sunlight  and  the  sound  of  human 

voices, 

Incredibly  remote. 

One  schemes  for  wealth;  one  boasts,  remembering 
Gossip  and  rhymes  and  lovers  of  old  time, 
Till  like  a  wilful  girl  she  runs  away, 
A  childish  joke  upon  her  hanging  lip. 
But  the  dreadful  dignity  of  one 
Is  consummated  by  his  utter  stillness. 
His  pale  eyes  fix  an  immanent  world, 
No  flicker 

Of  light,  no  needle-point  of  pain 
Reaches  him  where  he  stays,  removed,  immobile, 
Bound  by  what  grief  none  knows, 
Or  if  a  wanderer  in  some  dread  labyrinth  none 

penetrates 
Its  great  blind  wall. 

—82— 


BANNERS 
KING'S  pARK-~-continued 

Trembling    old    men,    and    dull-eyed   boys,    and 

women 

Who  have  outlived  a  lingering  prettiness, 
They  are  all  here, 

Silly  and  wild  and  mute,  but  all  are  mad. 
All  chatter  out  of  tune 
With  time  and  memory; 
All  play  with  broken  toys,  ardors  and  fears 
That  have  no  meaning  in  them. 
All  their  eyes 

Are  bent  on  vacancy  or  on  the  ground 
As  tho  to  pull  out  of  blank  space  the  thing 
They  clutch  at,  but  can  never  touch. 
They  are  the  prisoners  of  their  own  souls, 
Dwelling  in  a  yet  more  horrid  jail 
Than   even   human   savagery  builds   for  human 

savages  to  suffer  in. 
Well,  and  are  they  for  this  a  race  apart 
From  those  who  pity  and  hate  their  tragic  case? 
Has  none  of  these  slain  his  own  children,  none 
Been  plundered  or  else  plundered  prudently? 
Has  never  one 

Lost  virtue  or  courage,  maybe  failed  in  both? 
Has  none  if  such  befell 
Not  borne  the  burden?     Or  have  all  been  still, 

—83— 


BANNERS 
KING'S  PARK — continued 

Serene,  and  brave,  nor  cared  for  anything 
That  happened  to  them  in  their  careful  lives? 
That's  a  blind  alley.     But  one  thing  is  plain: 
There  are  walls  too  thick  for  intercourse,   and 

walls 

Too  thin  for  privacy,  and  walls 
Not  to  be  climbed  this  side  eternity;  and  we  all 

live  in  walled  cities. 
There's  a  sound  of  festival 
Or  there's  a  noise  of  war, 
And  sometimes  shattered  stones  come  tumbling 

down 

And  leave  us  in  an  open  desolate  place 
Where  nothing  moves 
But  fear. 


BANNERS 


JUNE:  1917 
(CLASS  DAY  POEM) 

As  one  who  from  the  dark 

Star-crowded  sky 

Turns,  to  renew  his  sense 

Of  the  rough  earth  he  knows,  and  human  faces, 

So  from  the  vasts  of  wisdom  we  stand  back, 

Amazed  by  searching  impotence. 

But  as  the  man  who  stares  into  the  void 

Cannot  forget 

The  wonder  and  the  hush  and  the  desire 

Of  the  stupendous  spaces  pricked  with  fire, 

We  grope  among  our  commonplaces, 

Star-blinded  yet. 

For  we  have  seen 

Out  of  time's  ashen  dawn,  the  brute 

Clamber  along  his  lonely  cliffs,  to  light 

The  fire  that  would  not  die  till  it  had  fought 

Slow  centuries  of  night, 

And  shown 

The  first  man's  passionate  children  struggling  on 

Fiercely  to  goals  unknown. 

-85- 


BANNERS 
JUNE:  1917 — continued 

Shut  from  the  personal  battle,  we  have  striven 

With  all  the  war-scarred  nations,  and  been  driven 

Across  all  weathered  continents  and  seas. 

And  breathless,  we  have  watched  the  alchemies 

Of  all  the  wonder-workers. 

We  have  heard 

Oceans  throbbing  shells 

With  every  word  and  pulse  of  truth. 

And  words  have  been 

Our  toys  and  tools. 

Whatever  we  have  wrought 

Has  been  in  the  enkindling  strife  of  thought. 

But  now  the  sun 

Marks  off  the  day  with  shadows. 

We  must  go 

From  our  golden  playground, 

Into  the  streets  of  unfamiliar  woe 

And  miserable  death. 

Yet  we  have  watched 

The  stars  leap  from  the  mother-orb, 

And  man,  rejoicing  in  the  earth  that  bore  him, 

run 

To  worship,  dancing. 
And  those  few, 

By  whose  heroic  gesture  the  world  broke 
—86— 


BANNERS 

JUNE:  1917 — continued 

From  slavery, 
We  have  beheld  them  too, 
And  something  in  us  woke 
Once 

That  will  wake  again  at  the  thought  of  these. 
And  there  will  stir  in  us  at  the  memories 
Of  them 

The  old  strong  will, 

We  shall  have  done  with  the  ancient  agonies. 
Something  there  is  in  us  to  answer  the  thrill 
Of  things  untried,  and  a  dream  like  a  flag  un 
furled 

Beckoning  on,  wins  the  youth  in  us  still, 
The  spirit,  moving  ever  to  things  unseen, 
Moving  us  too, 
Youth  overcoming  the  world! 


-87- 


BANNERS 


THE  NEW  DIONYSIAC 

TAWNY,  swift,  silent,  comes 

October,  with  her  nights  like  tightened  drums. 

The  hunter  stalks  the  hills.  .  .  . 

Thrown  to  the  great  blind  sky 

Shrills  the  new  Dionysiac,  and  beats 

The  old,  nocturnal  cry. 

Thru  the  deep  mountains  sound 
Echoes  like  autumn  thunder, 
Storming  of  feet  that  hound, 
Voices  of  joy  that  wound 
Men's  minds  with  savage  wonder. 

Out  of  the  ancient  years 
Plucked  from  the  mystic  vine, 
Plucked  with  a  sword  for  shears, 
Pressed  with  brooding  and  tears, 
Theirs  is  the  utter  wine. 

The  unforgotten  places, 
The  paths  that  their  sisters  trod 
—88— 


BANNERS 
THE  NEW  DIONYSIAC — continued 

Are  theirs,  and  the  waven  traces 
Theirs,  and  under  their  paces 
The  very  body  of  God. 

The  winds  and  the  night,  the  fire  and  the  singing 

fail. 

The  fury  falters,  the  dancers  falter  and  cease. 
They  have  crowned  the  darkness  with  splendor; 
With  a  red  veil 

They  have  bound  the  brows  of  the  hills; 
And  filled  the  night 
With  torches   and  triumph,   with  laughter   and 

lifted  knees. 

Out  of  the  tumult  of  the  darkness,  dawn 

Comes,  wan  as  these, 

With  wine-red  feet  unshod. 

Sprung  from  the  death  they  scattered,  as  a  god 

In  terror  and  beauty: 

Peace. 


BANNERS 


BEAUTY 

BEAUTY  Is  kindled  like  a  fire 

Flung  on  our  common  moments : 

A  bright  spur 

To  wingless,  lapsed  desire. 

She  is  briefly  seen 

In  the  untarnished  sky, 

And  in  the  liquid  amber  and  evening  green, 

Or  in  blue-glooming  dusk  that  falls 

As  a  madonna-cloak,  and  holds 

The  hushed  world  wound 

In  blue  voluptuous  folds. 

She  is  not  married  to  the  stars, 

But  glows 

In  rusty  boughs  that  stain  the  quiet  snows; 

In  pearly  streets,  dim-lit; 

In  shop-windows 

Shining  with  glamorous  things  that  cry  for  touch 

And  thrilling  ownership. 

All  rainy  nights  are  hers. 

She  vastly  flows 

In  frozen  rivers  slow  to  find  the  sea. 


BANNERS 
BEAUTY — continued 

And  in  the  moving  wind  invisibly 

Unstable  stirs. 

And  she  is  caught 

In  music,  vibrant  in  the  violin, 

In  the  full  choir 

And  the  unequal,  thin 

Chant  of  a  child,  and  in  young  laughter  or 

Words  singing  on  a  wire. 

She  leaps  with  fluent  limbs 

And  subtly  lies 

In  gesture  and  the  tangent  beam  of  eyes. 

She  wavers  in  slow  eddying  bands  of  smoke, 

In  glimmering  shape,  and  in  the  rhythmic  stroke 

Of  swimmers.     And  her  breath 

Is  fresh  with  forest-smells. 

Twisted  in  sinuous  roots,  or  bodiless 

On  friendly  odors  borne, 

And  like  the  autumn  sky  alight  with  death, 

Great  beauty  dwells. 

But  tho  she  wear  the  very  sign  of  doom, 

Like  Bacchus'  broken  body  scattered  far, 

She  yet  shall  work  her  will 

And  in  recurrent  wonder  she  shall  bloom. 

Not  the  unchanging  godhead,  the  fixed  star, 

But  the  windy  torch,  and  the  pulse  and  thrill 

That  all  eternal  are. 

—91— 


BANNERS 


PSALM  FOR  THE  NEW  ZION 

LIFT  up  your  voices,  daughters  of  Zion! 
Sing  and  rejoice  with  cymbals. 
Bind  with  fillets  of  silver,  with  leaves  of  gold 
And  flowers  of  lapis  and  coral 
The  brows  that  are  smiling. 
Sound  the  low  drums  now. 
Blow  the  pipes  for  the  dancing. 
Zion  is  risen  again, 
Zion  as  a  queen  who  was  sleeping, 
Zion  as  a  conqueror  home  from  the  heavy  wars. 
For  the  years  of  your  exile  are  done. 
From  the  footless  route  of  the  dunes, 
From  the  aching  dark  of  the  Ghettos, 
From  the  place  of  the  scourge, 
Emerging, 

A  moving  river  of  faces, 
Proud  blood  that  dumbly  shouts, 
You  return 

To  the  tents  of  your  fathers, 
To  the  fields  that  mock  the  sunset  skies  with  their 
beauty, 

—92— 


BANNERS 
PSALM  FOR  THE  NEW  ziON — continued 

To  the  mountains  that  rise  like  the  sisters  of  happy 

giants, 

The  mist-woven  mountains  of  joy. 
Is  it  more  than  a  dream.  .  .  . 
In  the  shadow  of  the  olives 
To  look  on  the  vine-wrapped  hillocks 
Where  the  wine  ripens  in  silence; 
To  rest  and  to  hear  far  off 
The  soft  song  of  the  peasants; 
To  ignore  the  gates  of  the  pale 
At  the  sound  of  the  twilight  bell; 
To  lean  on  the  bridge  and  care  for  no  one  who 

passes; 

To  give  your  wisdom  the  sinews  of  strength ; 
To  put  the  seal  of  the  Pharaohs  on  the  finger  of 

your  young  wisdom. 
Sing,  daughters  of  Zion, 
Sing  and  rejoice  in  the  streets. 
For  your  mother  is  come,  who  was  mourned  for 
As  Joseph  in  Egypt, 

Sold  to  the  thieves  to  be  a  slave  of  the  nations ; 
Her  brothers  look  upon  Zion, 
Giver  of  loaves  and  honey, 
The  companion  of  princes. 

—93— 


BANNERS 
PSALM   FOR   THE   NEW  ZION — continued 

Zion  is  wakened,  is  risen. 

His  eyelashes  wet  with  the  dew-fall. 

His  limbs  are  girdled  with  lilies, 

His  loins  with  the  sheep-skin. 

His  mouth  is  sweeter  than  roses, 

And  his  hair  thick  as  the  grape-leaves. 

Zion  comes  down  from  the  mountains. 

In  his  breast  there  is  slumber; 

But  his  heart  is  hot  as  the  desert, 

Fierce  as  beasts  in  the  thicket 

His  riotous  blood. 

Zion  stands  in  the  sun. 

Go,  greet  him  with  music, 

Clap  your  hands  and  your  anklets. 

Dance  till  your  garments  flutter  like  white  doves 

in  the  sunshine. 
He  will  give  you  young  males 
Like  lions. 

He  will  give  you  daughters  like  lilies, 
His  kiss  is  honey  and  fire. 
Lift  up  your  voice,  oh  Zion, 
For  he  returns  as  a  lover 
Thru  the  eager  dark, 
Like  music; 

—94— 


BANNERS 
PSALM  FOR  THE  NEW  ZION — continued 

The  heart  of  the  night  is  a  song; 
And  the  morning 
Over  the  wild  bright  mountains 
Moves  like  a  dancer. 


—95— 


BANNERS 


ZORKA 

"So  the  Orient  door 

Was  bolted  by  the  Turk. 

Spices  and  ivory,  black  slaves,  Chinese  jades: 

The  prizes  Europe  hungered  for, 

Locked  fast,  until  the  last  Crusades 

Belligerent  for  the  cross  that  was  the  key.  .  .  ." 

But  a  thousand  years  have  passed 

Since  that  was  told. 

History  seems  a  tarnished  age  of  gold. 

Time  goes  so  slowly,  there  is  so  much  suffering, 

So  many  scatterings,  and  such  small  ease  in  tears 

For  the  monstrous  things 

Of  a  thousand  years. 

Now  the  old  kings  are  fled. 

They  have  gone  in  a  sudden  panic  from  their 

thrones. 

Death  plays  the  triangle  upon  their  bones. 
But  the  dark  multitudes 
Who  slowly  file  to  the  red  funeral 


BANNERS 

ZORKA — continued 

Drown  out  his  music  with  their  conquerors'  tread, 
Singing,  with  bloody  banners  over  the  common 

dead. 

Imperial  majesty  is  fallen  away 
To  a  purple  cloak  over  a  little  clay. 
And  holiness  is  gone  from  sacred  places. 
Kaiser  and  czar,  sultan  and  shah  and  sheik 
Are  broken  figure-heads  upon  the  tide 
Of  Bolshevik  insurgence,  in  its  wide,  red  flood 
From  Petrograd,  from  Samarkand.  .  .  . 
Europe  holds  Asia  with  a  rope  of  sand. 


Out  of  earth's  rocky  craters, 

Blind  with  grime, 

From  the  dark  furrows  lifting  startled  brows, 

When  the  vast  wheels  and  the  hungry  machines 

are  still, 

Men  listen  to  the  striking  of  a  new  time 
Bolder  than  all  the  guns. 
In  the  grim  dawn  it  sounds, 
And  with  the  sun's  slow  whitening  breaks  upon 

the  millions  sleeping, 
And  wakes  them  to  old  wounds, 
And  to  a  silence  louder  than  all  weeping. 

—97— 


BANNERS 
ZORKA — continued 

The  East  is  red  once  more, 
Redder  than  war, 

As  from  the  iron  vigil,  morning  lifts 
A  beautiful  rebellious  head. 


-98- 


BANNERS 


ET  LE  BON  DIEU  PENSA  .  .  , 

BEING  past  His  first  youth, 

When  He  had  used  strong  hands 

To  rend  the  dark, 

And  blown  on  the  stars  like  coals, 

Being  past  the  time 

When  He  had  swung  earth  by  its  fiery  strands, — 

And  seeing  the  little  playthings  He  had  wrought: 

Finished  stone  honey-combs, 

And  the  splendor  of  His  thought 

Borne  in  frail  ships  looping  the  seven  seas, 

God  sat  and  smiled 

At  the  games  that  He  had  loved  when  God  was  a 

child. 

But  now  He  was  tired.     He  was  middle-aged, 
And  He  did  not  care 
To  build  proud  cities  out  of  fluted  sands, 
To  traverse  space  for  the  sake  of  the  sky's  red 

fruit, 

Or  boisterously  to  shout 
Like  a  young  giant  holding 
The  world  by  its  bright  hair. 


BANNERS 
ET  LE   BON  DIEU   PENSA — continued 

He  sat  down  in  heaven 

Smoking  hugely  in  His  chair. 

But  there  were  one  or  two  things  that  troubled 

God. 

He  still  remembered  His  youth  with  joy, 
Tho  He  knew  He  had  been  less  happy  as  a  boy 
Than  when  He  was  older. 
But  His   griefs,   like   His    other   passions,    had 

grown  colder. 

He  smoked,  and  pondered  on  His  universe. 
It  was  not  like  His  plan, 
Perhaps  not  worse,  .  .  . 
And  yet,  He  stared  at  the  earth 
And  suddenly  He  shook  with  wonderful  mirth : 
It  was  filled  with  so  many  of  His  little  idols — man. 
He  had  made  this  one  thing  in  His  image. 
It  was  like  Himself  in  the  first  rough  power  of 

youth. 

It  considered  the  various  suns 
And  the  other  things  He  had  made 
As  its  own. 

It  was  not  afraid  even  of  Him. 
And  that  was  the  truth. 
He  smoked  and  smoked. 
He  wondered  why  He  had  cared 
— 100 — 


BANNERS 
ET  LE  BON  DIEU  PENSA — continued 

To  give  it  more  than  He  gave 
To  the  nebulous  worlds 
Or  the  lightning 
Or  the  fierce  lovable  brutes. 
He  wondered  how  He  had  dared. 
For  man  was  the  cleverest  creature  He  had  made, 
And  the  meanest,  too. 
And  He  sighed,  sitting  up  there  in  heaven, 
Over  His  pipe, 

And  all  He  had  intended  to  do. 
Now  He  was  middle-aged, 
Probably  that  was  the  reason 
He  felt  so  old  and  despaired 
Of  all  the  fine  traps  He  had  laid 
And  the  poor  things  He  had  caught  and  caged. 
But  He  took  another  long  pull, 
And  He  thought  again, 
There  were  all  the  stars, 
And  the  planets, 

There  was  the  sun,  and  the  moon  that  was  dead. 
There  was  that  fantastic  earth, 
And  its  multiple  creatures, 
Forever  dying  and  forever  coming  to  birth, 
The  monstrous  tropic  beasts, 
The  ocean's  million  fins, 
— IGI — 


BANNERS 
ET  LE  BON  DIEU  PENSA — continued 

The  million  wings  that  fan  the  ambient  air, 
The  numberless  exquisite  microscopic,  everywhere. 
And  there  was  still  man. 
God  laughed  noiselessly,  as  only  God  can. 
He  was  wondering  why 
He  had  made  man  at  all, 

So,  His  thought  wandering  to  the  story  of  the  fall, 
He  reached  out  carelessly  and  plucked  an  apple 
Of  pale  golden  lustre,  from  the  sky. 
And  as  He  munched  with  solemn  satisfaction 
He  was  still  bothered  by  the  mystery 
Of  His  small  idol. 
For  it  was  intricate  and  delicate 
And  had  an  ancient  history 
Bloody  and  beautiful  and  adventurous. 
And  God  wondered  why  He  had  made  it  thus, 
And  why  He  was  in  such  simple  slavery 
To  the  thing  He  had  made. 
He  threw  away  the  core, 
And  felt  His  years,  and  just  a  touch  afraid. 
He  thought  of  His  long  sacrifice  to  man, 
And  how  He  had  bowed  to  this  idol, 
Fasted  and  prayed, 
And  shaken  before  its  power, 
And  how  He  had  had  faith 
— 102 — 


BANNERS 
ET   LE   BON  DIEU   PENSA — continued 

When  it  showed  only  wrath  and  empty  hands, 

And  how  when  all  He  had  done  seemed  gone  for 
nought 

He  felt  that  man,  His  idol,  understands. 

He  remembered  darkly  His  creature  furious 

Because  He  had  scorned  it, 

And  how  with  rich  burnt  offering  He  had  sought 

To  appease  it. 

And  He  thought  how  it  was  hungry,  wilful,  curi 
ous, 

And  it  was  the  image  of  Himself  that  He  had 
wrought. 

And  then  He  thought 

In  His  infinite  wisdom 

That  if  He  had  not  made  this  creature 

Man  would  have  made  himself. 

God  needed  no  preacher 

To  tell  Him  this.     He  was  at  least  as  wise  as  you. 

And  in  His  wisdom  He  laughed  to  think  that  that 
was  true. 

And  so  God  pondered,  smoking, 

And  smiling,  in  heaven. 

But  it  was  getting  late,  so  He  arose 

And  yawned  with  His  whole  body 

And  decided 

—103— 


BANNERS 
ET  LE  BON  DIEU  PENSA — continued 

That,  being  middle-aged,  He  had  to  sleep. 

And  tho  He  never  derided  prayer, 

He  was  sure 

His  idol  would  forgive  Him  if  He  went 

To  His  pleasant  couch  without  that  sacrament. 

But  before  He  slept  He  looked  with  all  His  eyes 

At  the  distant  earth, 

And  blessed  with  all  His  heart 

Man  and  his  works, 

That  were  the  best  part  of  God's  own  youth. 

And  on  that  mystery 

He  turned  and  went  to  bed  and  slumbered  deep, 

Without  dreams. 

God  is  now  middle-aged. 

But  He  is  still  beautiful  asleep. 


• — 104— 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


-•••    IMIB    Mill    |jg 

8000732183 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


